


No Use in Chasing Dreams

by ironic_purposes



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: 1000+ word fic, Character Analysis, Gen, angsty times for all, i guess??, it might surprise ya, short fic, something to get the creative juices flowing, what is tagging, who's having the bad dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 07:55:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15166115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironic_purposes/pseuds/ironic_purposes
Summary: A bad dream about Della inspires thoughts and feelings to arise, much to the dreamers' dismay.





	No Use in Chasing Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> My first work on this site! I've been writing for, like... 10+ years?? Anyway, I'm excited, even if it's more of just a short thing that I wrote before I get to go to my stepdad's brothers house for the 4th of July! Well, I hope you enjoy it. It took me like 30 minutes to write tbh.

_“Mom!” Dewey’s voice quivered as he called out to the woman only a few feet away from him. He couldn’t believe it; his head spun with the possibility that this figure before him, this strong form with squared shoulders and a thin yet hard frame that demanded attention whilst also asking kindly, was indeed his mother. There was an aura around her that immediately drew one in and offered unconditional support and love. That was just the kind of person she was; always giving without really trying, always offering kindness without a second thought._

_But now, it was different. The closer that Dewey drew to the woman, the colder his chest felt. It wasn’t a physical chill that made his feathers stand on end but an internal coolness that chilled his bones. He swallowed a thick gust of air._

_“Mom?” It was a question now, as if the boy was uncertain whether or not she was truly his mother, despite the evidence that every photograph offered. She wouldn’t turn to him, wouldn’t gaze into her own child’s eyes and see him, see all the questions he had pounding against his chest, all of the answers that he needed in order to sleep at night._

_Finally, her head whipped to the side, hair falling gracefully against her face and then falling back into place so easily. Her gaze flicked to the boy below her and Dewey’s breath caught in his throat so abruptly he had to stifle the threat of a cough. Her eyes pierced his and it was like a clone of his mother, a real life printout but without the light glowing around her or the twinkle in her smile. Her beak didn’t even flinch._

_There was no recognition. Dewey squared his shoulders and blinked the tears from his eyes; if there was any time to be brave, it was now. Once he told her who he was, everything would fall into place. That vibrantly wonderful person that everyone talks about would come to life and sweep him up. She’d cry and those tears would hide Dewey’s as she explains what really happened on the night she stole the Spear of Selene, and she’d hug him and tell him that of course she isn’t a traitor, she’s a hero, she loves her family more than anything else in the entire world and what happened might have been awful but she’s back, after an entire decade she’s back and she’s ready to stay and Uncle Donald is going to be so happy again, happy to see his twin sister and Dewey’s brothers are going to praise him for finding her and they’ll all be one big, happy family because he can see it, it’s so obvious and right and-_

_“Excuse me?” Della’s voice was a sharpened blade that stabbed Dewey’s heart and poked through to his back._

_“Just who the hell are you?”_

_This didn’t sound like anything he thought his mother would say, but he knew they would all laugh about this later. Dewey cleared his throat and tried speaking around that hard knot forming._

_“I-I’m your son,” he stammered weakly, searching her eyes for any flicker of remembrance, any sign of joyous delight. Instead, a cloud misted across her hollow face. Dewey tried again._

_“I’m Dewey. I mean, I’m Dewford. Dewford Duck. You’re… I’m your middle son. There’s also Hubert, the oldest, and Llewellyn, the youngest. We’re Donald Duck’s nephews. Your… your children. Your triplets.” He tried desperately to keep his voice steady, but the lilt on every syllable revealed his emotions. His trembling hands tightened into fists as he waited for her to scoop him up into her arms, for that shocking moment of realization to strike her so suddenly that she almost stumbles from the brunt of it._

_But there was nothing. No magical change in her hardened expression. No laughter or tears or any other feeling being displayed, really, other than slight confusion and an unmistakable anger._

_“I don’t have any children.”_

_Dewey’s heart physically slammed into his ribcage. He wanted to double over from the impact but managed to keep himself upright. He met her steely gaze and repressed a sob. When it became clear that he wasn’t going to continue, Della went on._

_“I might have been pregnant once, but I am no one’s mother. I’m an explorer. An adventurer. The greatest that this world has ever seen; do you honestly think I’m going to let something as ridiculous as_ family _drag me down? While I’m in the prime of my life? You must be as stupid as you look.” Then she pinched his cheek so hard that when she pulled her hand away Dewey felt a lingering burn throbbing against his teeth._

_“Don’t contact me again. Don’t come find me, don’t bring your brothers or your uncle, and especially not your great uncle. That old self-righteous blaggard. He only cared about his stupid adventures- never his children. His adventures and his precious money.” Her beak curled into a sinister smile then, one that mocked and ridiculed._

_“Listen here, kiddo.” She jabbed a finger in Dewey’s chest, making the boy flinch._

_“Go back into that empty hole of a mansion and leave me alone. Let Uncle Scrooge ruin your life, ruin everything, let him control you, I don’t care. That man can rot. The lot of you can. Just let. Me._ Live! _"_

* * *

 

He awoke with such a start that his heart beat drummed against his skull with an intense force. His eyes wouldn’t focus around the room and his head felt light, almost dizzy. The duck blinked once, twice, three times, until finally only certain objects near enough to him really had any proper shape. Damn his old age. Scrooge reached haphazardly across his nightstand until his fingers finally brushed across his spectacles. He placed them sleepily atop his beak and sighed a long, heavy, depressive sigh.

Della. It felt as if his heart ached for his dear niece more and more everyday. The guilt weighed on his shoulders to the point where it felt difficult to sit up straight. He knew he could have been better, more caring, kinder- like her. Donald always warned him, long before Della slipped from their fingertips, that his greed and overzealous outlook would get them all hurt.

Or worse.

His stomach twisted into a sickening knot and all he wanted to do was fall back into bed and squeeze his eyes shut, willing the nightmare away until he drifted into a peaceful, dreamless slumber. Yet the more he thought over his plan, the more awake and anxious he became. He wished he could reach into his bedside drawer and pull out that photo- the one of himself and his niece and nephew, huddled together, Scrooge’s arms wrapped around both of their shoulders and a grin lighting up his wrinkled face. Della was caught mid-laugh while still looking as beautiful as ever, her eyes wide and full of energetic, radiant life. Donald had a shy smile across his beak but the gleam in his eye gave way to his obvious happiness.

A tear dripped onto the satin sheets and Scrooge absentmindedly wiped it away with the back of his fist. He had hid that photo, along with many others, for fear that the boys and Webby may stumble across it and have more questions than his heart could provide answers for.

He would tell them, he promised himself that. Just not yet. It was too soon, the wound still much too fresh. Yet he couldn’t help but chide himself; wasn’t ten years enough to at least begin the grieving process? Wasn’t it long enough to let himself think about it, think about her, and talk to her own children about who she was?

With a shake of his fist, Scrooge decided that, no, it wasn’t long enough. Not nearly so. One decade felt the equivalent of a mere week to him, especially at his age. The boys, and Webbigail too, for that matter, don't need to know everything. Not yet. They’re still children, they have all of the time in the world to fret over such things. Besides, the older man thought as he clenched his jaw and refocused his vision, I’m thinking way too much into this matter. Bah. They’re only ten years old, they don’t care about these sort of things, anywho.

At least the lies in which he told himself made him, admittedly, feel a bit better. He decided to stretch and get out of bed without looking at the clock. The dark blue shadows of nightfall told him it must be very late at night, or extremely early in the morning, depending on how one looks at it. But Scrooge didn’t care to know the specifics; all he wanted was to move around, forget the dreadful nightmare and perhaps have a bit to drink. Since the kids have shown up, he tried to keep the alcoholic beverage drinking to an absolute minimum. Not that he was a heavy drinker beforehand, but it was the sort of thing he knew Donald would throw an unbelievable tantrum about and he hadn’t the energy to fight him over it.

The children were fast asleep as he crept down the hall, pulling his night coat over him tightly. As he made his way into the kitchen and his mind drifted, searching, he knew with an acrid clearity that, though disheartening as it may seem, some realities were too apparent to ignore.

His fingers trembled as he sat the whiskey bottle back down and instead moved to his coffee maker.

Della wasn’t coming back. Donald was forever going to be without his twin sister, Scrooge without his niece, and the triplets without a mother. No matter how desperately he wanted to change that, she was gone. Lost forever in an abyss that Scrooge couldn’t wrap his mind around. Tears flowed freely down his cheeks and this time, as the coffee brewed and hummed and the nightly wind rustled faintly outside, he made to attempt to wipe the dampness away.

Whether proclaimed missing or deceased, Della was gone and she took pieces of everyone's hearts who were lucky enough to know her into that oblivion. No amount of money or adventures could bring her back.

In the end, there was no use in chasing dreams.


End file.
